


Third Time's a Charm

by Ludwiggle73



Series: The Sad Dad Collection [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst and Tragedy, Death, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Mpreg, POV First Person, Parenthood, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur tries to make a family for Francis, only to discover that they already have one.[Domestic FrUK.]





	Third Time's a Charm

Hello.

I’m pregnant.

I’m also Arthur, but these days the former is more important to everyone than the latter. Case and point: everyone who came to my baby shower today opted to greet my bulging belly before they congratulated me. If you need evidence that none of them are my friends, there you have it. If they knew me, they would have brought endurance trophies instead of baby socks and insufferable party games. _Family-friendly_ party games, because Lovino, Feliciano, and Elizabeta all have their toddlers with them.

I endured their hands on me, feeling around as if my womb is a crystal ball, all of them divining what I already know—shock horror, it’s a boy. I allowed them to perform a foolish test that involved tickling my belly. _If he kicks, he’s an Alpha,_ Feliciano told me, cheerful as if this wasn’t an invasion of personal space. (No kick came. If I was in there, I wouldn’t kick, either. Not because I’m an Omega, just to spite them.) I even put up with the games, even though I could feel them killing ten brain cells per second.

But when they all sat around me with their pups on their laps and started telling me stories about how _wonderful_ motherhood is, how _rewarding_ it feels, how they have so many _helpful_ tips for me, how this is the _easy_ part?

Piss. Right. Off.

“Bonjour, cher! How is your shower going?”

“You have to get these nutters out of the house.”

“What? Why are you whispering? Where are you?”

“The loo.” I rub the small of my back; it started to ache when I heaved myself up off the sofa. “Held hostage in my own home, thanks to my own mate.”

“Arthur.” He sounds stern, but that doesn’t mean much from a soft Alpha like Francis. “You’re supposed to be making friends with them.”

“That’s what they told me in grammar school, and wouldn’t you know it? Didn’t work then, either.” Since it was an all-Omega school, I grew up theorizing that I could only get along with Alphas. Imagine my disappointment to discover the whole world is out to get me. Except Francis, which is why I mated him within a year of meeting him. What innocent, ignorant days those were. Back when I thought my irregular heat cycle was just a biological quirk, rather than something that would completely take over my life.

So I’m not just held hostage by the baby shower. I’m held hostage by my body, and this smaller body I’m toting around inside it. But there’s no room for regret. I fought my way to this point. I’m pregnant. At long last, the fabled third trimester. I’m going to give Francis a baby. We’ll be a family.

“What’s so bad about them?” I can tell he’s holding the phone against his shoulder, because his voice sounds closer and I hear an oven door closing in the background.

“They all think they know better than me.”

“Well.” Here it comes. “They do. They have pups already.”

Even though his voice is gentle, tears still well in my eyes. Damn it. I wipe them with my sleeve and try not to sniffle too loud. The last thing I need is one of those Omegas out there to know I’m crying. _Oh, I cried all the time when I was pregnant,_ they’ll say. _It’s all those hormones!_

As if they know anything about hormones.

“They said,” I whisper, my daft voice trembling, “this was the easy part.”

Easy. Changing my diet, exercise, sleep patterns. Getting tested for every pregnancy-related condition under the sun. Paying ludicrous amounts of money so Francis can wank into a cup and a doctor can fertilize my eggs for me, because apparently I’m too inept to even do that properly. Getting thick, burning progesterone shot into my arse, by the doctor or the nurse or Francis—depending where we happen to be when torture time rolls around.

Oh, and this is attempt number three.

Two miscarriages.

_Easy._

Francis is thinking about all of that, too, because his voice has gone low. “Maybe I should come home.”

“No, stay, it’s almost lunch.” I won’t drag him away from his cafe right before the lunch rush; I just needed to know that he would leave if I asked. “I’ll send them home.”

“Try to be polite.”

“I’ve been nothing but polite all day. I faked gratitude perfectly when Elizabeta gave me a breast pump. Oh, thank you, dearest friend. I’ll always think of you when I’m lactating.”

Francis laughs. “Je t’aime, Arthur.”

I smile, until I stand up. The pain in my back is sharp, stabbing right through my abdomen. He must hear the whimper it draws from me, because he asks, “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Nothing. Just an ache.” Because it has faded to just an ache, now. “I’m quite achy these days. My joints are sore. I’m pregnant, you know.”

“Really?” I can hear Francis smiling. As usual, my mate knows just what to say. “Congratulations.”

 

* * *

 

The pain worsens gradually enough that I don’t notice it until after I’ve sent the other Omegas home (I didn’t reject their offer to clean up, even though I knew they expected me to), after Francis comes home and cooks us dinner, after we spend the evening on the sofa—me reading a novel, him “reading” a magazine. Getting off the couch proves more difficult than usual; pain clutches my entire midsection in iron claws. Not as painful as breaking my arm when I was young, but enough to double me over—as much as I _can_ double over, with this passenger in the way.

“Arthur?” Francis is trying so hard to hide the fear in his voice, it makes me feel like I’m about to cry. Again.

“I don’t know what it is,” I say, trying to breathe. It hurts more when I inhale. “Maybe it’s contractions. Or pre-labor.”

Francis’s brow furrows. “But your water—”

Just then, as if invoked by my mate, my water breaks. Hot and wet between my legs; it can be nothing else. That is my naive thought before I look down and, instead of the darkened fabric I expected, I see a patch of black spreading over my trousers.

Maternity pants, they’re called. Stretchy. Ugly, I thought, before I first put them on and discovered they are the most comfortable thing ever designed. Pastel colors, green background with little blue and pink bunnies all over them. And, now, blood soaking in. Ruining them.

“Don’t panic,” I hear myself say. Maybe all premature babies are born like this. There’s nothing wrong with having a preemie pup. They need extra care and love, but we can give that. We’ll give everything we have.

Francis doesn’t listen to my advice. He runs to get me a coat, runs to get the car keys, hovers restlessly at my side while I waddle slowly out to the drive. The pain comes in waves, but they’re not even and strong like the doctor talked about. They’re irregular, twisting around in my belly like a jagged knife. I don’t feel any instinct to push. Maybe the pup doesn’t want to come out yet, but my body is forcing him to? _I’m so sorry,_ I think to him. _I love you, I promise. I don’t want any of this to happen._

“Breathe,” Francis says. “Remember to breathe.”

I’m holding his free hand, even though he’s never driven with one hand before and tonight seems a bad time to start. “Breathing hurts.” I push my head back against the headrest, clench my jaw. Another wave of pain rolls up and crashes down. It’s like the others—and then, just as I think that, it worsens. Instantly.

This is the worst pain I have ever felt.

I scream. I must scream, because my throat hurts afterward. It’s pain so intense my fingernails leave deep marks in Francis’s hand. It’s agony so powerful it lifts me up off my seat, desperate to escape it.

Something. A new sensation, through the pain. I jerk my free hand from where it’s clinging to the edge of the seat and investigate between my legs.

_Oh God._

“What’s wrong?” Francis looks over with wild eyes.

“I’m—I’m crowning.” I can feel the top of his head, silky with wet, fine hair. I don’t want to, but I lift my hand. My fingers are drenched in blood.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, that’s when I passed out. Or so I’m told.

The doctor says it’s a coping mechanism, my brain trying to provide me with closure, but I remember everything that happened. Impossible, they tell me. But I still remember.

Francis parked in front of the hospital doors. Doctors and nurses rushed out. My baby came out without any help from me, without needing to be cut out. He was so tiny, he just slipped into the doctor’s hands. He wasn’t bright red like a healthy baby. He wasn’t even disgusting and greenish with fluid like some pups on those motherhood telly programs. He was grey, with a slight blue tint. He looked like he hadn’t been colored in yet.

An Alpha, by the way. In case you were wondering.

Afterward, they tell us they can’t be sure how long he’d been dead inside me. I know they’re lying, but I don’t ask for the truth. I don’t want to know.

Things get hazy. I remember sailing on painkillers, seeing nothing even though my eyes were open. I remember a hand holding mine, stroking my knuckles, my palm. I remember a nurse coming in to check on me. I remember her screaming for help, because I was quietly bleeding out on my hospital bed.

 

* * *

 

Third time’s a charm. That’s what Francis always said about this last pup. This would be the one. We could do it. The time was now.

Eight months later, here’s what we have to show for it:

Bloodstains in our car and a trail of blood from den to drive. Savings eaten by IVF costs. An empty nursery. Drawers full of baby clothes. A breast pump. Scars on my stomach where the doctors carved out my uterus, which could no longer take the abuse of these failed births, and my ovaries, which had begun to grow scar tissue around themselves as if in self-defense.

A third tiny urn on the mantle.

Third time’s a fucking charm.

 

* * *

 

Have you ever wondered what happens to your milk when you lose a third-trimester baby? I hadn’t, before now. I’ll tell you what happens, since no one thought to tell me: It builds up like a bloody dammed river, and your breasts turn into footballs, and it hurts like utter skin-splitting hell. That is what happens.

Francis tries to massage some of it out, which is insult to injury like all of this humiliating shite is. Before this IVF process started, the last time I spoke to a doctor was for the broken arm. I hate the attention, despise the poking and prodding. But I’m an Omega, and Francis is my Alpha, and he wants to have a family. So I did it. I did all of it.

And look what good it did.

“Stop, just stop,” I say, pushing Francis’s gentle hands away. “There’s no point. If you get it out, more will just come. I might as well just deal with it.”

Francis nods, looking down at the white droplets in the sink. “You could sell it, if you wanted. Some Omegas don’t make any. They need it.”

I bristle. “Are you standing there saying I’m selfish if I don’t milk myself like a cow for some stranger?”

His eyes widen. “No, I’m not saying that at all. It just seemed . . . mutually beneficial.”

“They can be mutually benefited by someone else.” I walk out, leave him standing there.

I don’t care.

I deserve to be selfish for once.

 

* * *

 

Francis took time off when I first came home from the hospital, but he was back at the cafe before long. I’m terrible company; I don’t feel like talking, let alone talking pleasantly. My days are spent ignoring the tidying I should be doing and instead sitting in the nursery, looking at the empty crib, thinking about all the life I’ve wasted striving for something unattainable. My breasts are painfully full and my belly is painfully empty. I was an Omega, before. I was a happy, pregnant Omega. Now what am I?

I remember the doctor’s words. _You won’t go into heat ever again. You may experience mood swings and hot flashes. Your sex drive may decrease._ And then he’d turned to Francis. _You may find his scent will change or fade. That’s natural._

Of course he’d mention that and not the horror of the milk. The priorities of an Alpha doctor.

The doorbell rings. I’m not dressed to receive at all—wearing only a robe and slippers because everything else hurts my chest—but I go down anyway. I open the door.

Lovino, Feliciano, and Elizabeta stand on my doorstep. They all wear sympathetic expressions and proffer glass pans of casserole and lasagna.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Elizabeta says.

“I cried when I found out,” Feliciano adds, and sniffles like he may start again.

“We know this won’t fix anything, but we thought it might help.” Lovino sounds like he’s reciting lines from a script.

I can say nothing.

Elizabeta smiles sadly at the others and steps forward. “Let us come in, we’ll put these away for you.”

“We can’t stay long,” Feliciano reminds her. “Gil is baby . . . sitting . . .”

They both glare at him; he shrinks down into his coat.

“Don’t bother,” I say, quieter than I intended.

“Pardon?” Elizabeta asks.

“I said don’t bother. Don’t come in. Go home. Take your food with you. Oh, and here.” I grab the plastic contraption on the counter and toss it onto the cling film-covered casserole in Elizabeta’s hands. “Take your pump. I don’t need it.”

They all look offended. Elizabeta speaks first. “A-Are you sure?”

“We didn’t mean—” Feliciano starts to say.

I cut him off. “Yep, I’m sure. Goodbye.”

As I’m closing the door in their faces, I hear Lovino say _Ungrateful._ I make sure the door slams. Yes, I am ungrateful. What the fuck do I have to be grateful for?

Thank you for blessing me with a body unable to serve its biological purpose.

Thank you for killing all three of my children.

Thank you for cursing me.

 

* * *

 

Francis finds me on the floor in the nursery, sitting in the corner beside the crib, holding the wee rabbit stuffie we bought for the first pup. He sits beside me, puts his arms around me. I move into his lap, something I haven’t done since we were young and people called us sweethearts instead of mates. Francis nuzzles into my neck, and I feel him stiffen. “What?”

He sniffs along my throat, under my chin, behind my ear. I hear the softest whine scrape in his throat. I move back to look at him. _“What?”_

He’s got those Alpha puppy dog eyes. “Your scent.”

“What about it?”

“It’s . . . wrong.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get upset.” He shakes his head. “You just smell different. Not wrong. Different.”

“Different how?”

He looks uneasy. “Well . . . you know.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“You just . . . your scent used to be like homemade bread. Now your scent is like white bread from the store.”

“Why would I smell like—oh, you mean metaphorically, don’t you?” When he nods, I smack his shoulder. “Why would you say that? You’ve waxed poetic for hours on end about how shite store bread is!”

He holds up his hands. “Don’t hit me! I was being honest, cher. You always said you wanted me to be honest.”

“About if I look fat in bloody jeans, not this!” I stand up, looming over him. “So, what, you don’t want to fuck me anymore? I’m not just partly undesirable now, I’m a full-on freak show, is that it?” I throw the rabbit at him. “Step right up, everyone, gather round to see the Omega who got gutted like a fucking fish!”

Francis rises elegantly to his feet. “Arthur. I don’t care what you smell like. You’re my mate. You’re beautiful. I love you.”

I’m tearing up, so I turn away. I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I cannot give my mate a child. I am worthless.

Something soft touches my shoulder. I glance. The bunny’s sweet little face is peeking around at me. I watch deft fingers puppet one of its paws to wave.

I don’t know where I find the life to say, “Hello, little rabbit.”

“Bonjour, Arthur.” Standing behind me, Francis does a silly squeaky voice.

My mouth actually wants to smile. “Oh, you’re a French bunny, are you?”

“Oui.” The stuffie nods, floppy ears bouncing.

“I see. Would you happen to be acquainted with Francis? He’s French, as well.”

“Oui, he is a very handsome and loving Alpha and he told me to bring you a message.”

“Really.” I let my back rest against Francis’s chest. “Let’s hear it.”

The bunny glances around theatrically. “Closer.”

I roll my eyes, but indulge. “Is it a secret?”

“Oui.” The bunny hops up from my shoulder and presses its face to my cheek. _“Mwa!”_

I spin around. “You are ridiculous!” But I’m laughing and crying and he’s embracing me, as close as we can get with the pain between us. He picks me up with some effort and carries me in to bed. We might have made love, before, but we don’t tonight. Perhaps he’s afraid I won’t enjoy it. Perhaps the scent will keep him from enjoying it. It’s yet another broken thing that I hope time will mend, because I have no idea how to begin fixing it myself.

Obviously, there are other ways. Adoption, surrogates. Perhaps we’ll try that, one day. Not tomorrow. Not even soon. But one day. Or maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll find family in a different way. Maybe I’ll reconcile with his friends’ strange mates. Maybe I’ll get a cat or ten and live as a hermit. Maybe everything will be okay.

I don’t know. I’m not the optimistic one.

There are a hundred things I could say, and a hundred things Francis could, but both of us are silent as I hold him and he holds me back. Only when I’ve stopped crying do I notice the tears on his cheeks. I kiss them away and tell him, “Je t’aime, Francis.”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, scent be damned. “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

So.

I’m Arthur.

I’m not pregnant.

But at least I know what I’m grateful for.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
